But the call of the Corps, that swells in one
Reverberant chorus, Fight! Fight! Fight!
The bed of the thicket is stained with red,
So fierce was the Moro ambuscade:
Half the men down, and the captain dead,
And each tree shelters a rebel blade.
But the boy, with never a blush of fear,
Forms the shattered ranks, drives the foe in flight.
For the Corps from afar still speaks to him clear,
And the word that he hears is Fight! Fight! Fight!